Chill Of Night. John Lutz

out both palms toward the courtroom. “Everybody calm down, and sit down.”

      “Put-up deal for the media!” Farrato grumbled. “Cheap stunt by the defense!”

      “You sit down too, Mr. Farrato. You too, Mr. Murray.”

      “Certainly, your honor.” Murray seemed sobered and much concerned over what had occurred.

      “We’re going to continue these proceedings in an orderly fashion,” the judge said.

      “Thank you, your honor.”

      “Quiet, Mr. Murray.”

      “Your honor—”

      “I will not entertain an objection during an opening statement, Mr. Farrato. And for purposes of this trial, you will refer to the defendant as Richard Simms, not Cold Cat. And of course the jury is to disregard this…disturbance.” To the defendant: “When Mrs. Simms—the defendant’s mother—agrees to behave herself, she will be allowed back in the courtroom.”

      Murray smiled beatifically, as if he’d just achieved a victory. “Thank you, your honor. Your demeanor and judicious temperament are commendable.”

      “I’d like to request a short recess,” Farrato said.

      “Not in the middle of an opening statement, Mr. Farrato.” The judge fixed her baleful stare on Murray. “You may continue, Mr. Murray.”

      “Despite attempts to silence those who know my client as a kind and generous man,” Murray began, seizing on opportunity and making Farrato squirm, “the defense will prove to you that it was absolutely impossible for Richard Simms to have murdered Edie Piaf.”

      “Right on!” a Cold Cat supporter in the courtroom said softly.

      Judge Moody silenced him with a laser-like glance.

      Melanie knew the judge’s instruction to ignore the disturbance was simply a matter of form. How on earth could a juror actually put such a thing out of his or her mind?

      She knew she couldn’t, and decided that if any relevant impression stayed with her from the recent outburst, it was that Cold Cat loved his mother.

      Of course, it was possible to love your mother, hate women, and murder one.

      Wasn’t it?

      15

      “This is just terrific!” da Vinci said in disgust.

      He hadn’t taken the results of Nell’s computer research quite as she anticipated. She and Beam, seated in da Vinci’s sun-washed office, glanced at each other.

      “Not only do we have two more Justice Killer murders, but they’re old homicides we never connected with him.”

      “It’s important information,” Beam said. “It enlarges a pattern, and it indicates that the killer’s increasing the rate of his murders.”

      “Yeah. Just what the media in this town will want to know. Do you realize what they’re going to do to me? To you?”

      “Stay ahead of the curve and notify the media,” Beam said, ignoring da Vinci’s questions. “Act as if the discovery of two earlier murders represents progress, which in fact it does. These victims didn’t die again just because Nell discovered their connection to the Justice Killer. The more we know, the sooner we’ll nail this asshole.”

      “Can I quote you?”

      “I’d clean it up.”

      Da Vinci grinned. “Well, I’d be quoting you.”

      Nell was normally intimidated by these two, but she’d had about enough. Besides, the office was too hot; a trickle of perspiration found its way out from beneath her bra and trickled down her ribs. “I don’t get it. I find something useful and you act as if I did something wrong. Maybe I oughta talk to the media.”

      Da Vinci stood up behind his desk and Nell actually winced.

      So did Beam. “She didn’t mean that, Andy. Not the way it sounded.”

      “The politics of this business are delicate and complex. I’ll concentrate on that part of our game while you concentrate on yours.”

      “That’s what I was—”

      “Nell.” Beam reached over and rested a big hand on her knee. For an instant she thought inanely that he might squeeze just behind the kneecap, prove she was boy crazy. “This is one phase of the game you don’t understand, Nell. You did nothing wrong and everything right—we all know that. It’s just that we handed Andy something valuable, but hot enough to burn his hand.”

      We. Nell liked that. Beam and Nell together against the bureaucratic monster. “Okay,” she said, “I’m sorry, Chief.”

      “Deputy Chief,” da Vince corrected. He actually smiled. Nell had to admire him for it. “Keep unearthing whatever you can,” da Vinci said. “And go wherever the investigation takes you. You’re the one who’s right, Nell, we’ve gotta have faith that the truth will bear us out. It’s our job, finding the truth.”

      Nell thought he was getting a little sickening. Beam gave her a cautioning glance.

      Beam stood up suddenly, surprising Nell.

      “We’ll get back to our end of the game while you take care of business on your end,” Beam said to da Vinci. “All I’ll say is that if I were you, I’d dump it all on the media before it leaks on them. You know how it works; there’ll be less pressure on us that way in the long run.”

      “Yeah,” da Vinci said, obviously pretending to become engrossed in some papers on his desk. “They’ll think we’re actually doing something.”

      Outside One Police Plaza, as they were walking toward Beam’s car, Beam said, “da Vinci’s right about this, in some ways.”

      “I thought you were on my side,” Nell said.

      Beam smiled. “I am. You’re right about it in every way.”

      “Departmental politics are a pain in the ass,” Nell said. “I’ll never understand them.”

      “Probably not. Best thing.” They crossed the street. “Know what would help?” Beam said,

      “Tell me.”

      “If we solved one of these crimes.”

      “And then the others,” Nell said, reaching for the Lincoln’s sun-warmed door handle.

      “And then the others.”

      16

      Cold case files, suddenly hot.

      Beam and his detectives studied the Rachel Cohen and Iris Selig murder files, then Beam sent Nell and Looper to snoop around the Selig crime scene. He took the Rachel Cohen murder, in the Village, himself.

      Cohen had been single and a freelance journalist who hadn’t sold much. She’d been supported by her lifetime partner, a woman named Angela Drake, who’d discovered Rachel’s corpse in their apartment on MacDougal Street. Drake had long ago moved from the city. The people who lived in the apartment now, a young artist and his wife, consented to let Beam look around; but as Beam suspected, nothing much resembled the four-year-old police photographs of the murder scene. The furniture was different, and the papered walls with their fleur-de-lis pattern had been stripped and painted.

      Beam was driving back uptown and turned onto Fourteenth Street when he noticed a small antique shop, Things Past, where he’d expected to see a jewelry store. His reaction was out of proportion to his surprise. A block away, he pulled to the curb and switched off the ignition.

      Five years ago Things Past had been Precious Gems Limited, and was owned and managed by a fence, Harry Lima, who was one of Beam’s most valuable and reliable snitches.